A Future Visit to the Past

I'm scared stiff. Not a circumstance that happens very often, but this is one of them. You see, next week I'm about to take a trip into the milieu of my past life, reconnecting with a bunch of people I used to know from worship camps. It's a different camp (www.kiwisong.co.nz), but in the same spirit, and many of the same folks will be there. I don't particularly want to learn about worship - been there, done that, suffered the abuse - but my creative mind remembers all too well that my best writing is done in church, and what better way to give myself a jildy than to spend all week at a camp? In a lovely remote coastal location no less?

The thing I'm really scared about is that most if not all of these old friends are of the highly prophetic type. Yes, I know that's a good thing. A real good thing in fact. But that means there's a very good chance that God might speak to me. He and I have observed silence for so long that I know I'll be a little awkward, even if he isn't. He might see fit to give me clues about just what it is that is still broken inside of me after severe spiritual abuse as a worship leader. There might be tears and healing. Or there might not. I'm trying not to set any expectations, because I could be setting myself up for disappointment. Then again, I can't expect to show up in this state in such a spiritually charged atmosphere and have nothing happen.

I will be meeting some of the very people who once prophesied I would go to Germany. Now, for sure they're not responsible for the abuse that happened while I was there. Not even God is responsible for that, actually. Still, it'll be weird telling them what a disaster it turned out to be (Did you miss that story? Part 1 Part 2).

I guess I'm also scared that someone will tell me what I'm doing wrong, as many others have done over the years. Get over it, they said. You have to worship whether you feel like it or not. Well, folks, I'm sorry. My worship fuse is blown, and it's going to take more than "getting over it" to be able to even sing in church again. Sure, I've found other ways to express my joie de vivre, such as it is. But writing a story is much harder than writing a song, let me tell you.

Which brings me to a problem: all this terror is crippling my ability to write. I'm on a deadline; need to write at least one story today, and get it critiqued, edited and submitted by the end of the week. Yesterday all I did was rearrange my room and my office area. Didn't even tidy up first. With the result that the mess is just elsewhere now. Mountains of clothes by the bed. An overflowing in-tray of paperwork to file. Every seat (well, 4 out of 5) piled high with random stuff. A sink full of dishes, a stinky cat litterbox. No doubt all this mess is just an external sign of the chaos within. And I've never been able to write amidst a mess.

Each night I tell myself I won't turn on the computer in the morning until I've tidied up. But then I have to have it on to play music while I'm tidying - and the music does help my composure, thank the Lord for Mike, composer extraordinaire. So I end up checking my mail and everything anyway, and the room is not tidy, and I do not write.

Haven't had any human contact for 48 hours, except online; that's likely to change today, though I'd rather stay a hermit. Can you hear me tearing my hair out? I have a long list of stuff to finish this week, and zero ability to get started on it. Creative work requires a good frame of mind, and that I do not have right now.

So, I'm sorry about the gut-spilling here, but if you weren't put off by the title, it's your own problem, and I'd like to call you friend. Will God speak to me next week through old (or new) friends? I cannot say. All I know is that probably, nothing will be the same.

Video: Lagoon Fish of New Caledonia

Filmed at sea and in the Nouméa Aquarium, back in July.
Music from http://michaellrogers.virb.com

Lateness, Life, and Obligations

Today I got a large blue sack in the mail. Inside was a foot-long box. It contained just ten books, five each of Splashdown's new releases. The sack, in my opinion, was overkill - but certainly fun.

I have been feeling rather overwhelmed lately, and not getting near enough done as I believe myself capable of. In need of a brainstorming session, perhaps, a mind map on a very large piece of paper, or the inside of that there sack. Pursued by the suspicion that I've forgotten something very important, while on the inside crying out for peace.

The things filling up each day seem to fall into one of three categories: obligations, which have to come first; things that are late, and thus quite urgent; and then there are the other things that make up real life.

Obligations include working and taking care of my boarders - shopping and cooking mainly. I love to cook, but it takes a lot of time out of my best part of the day, since I start getting active in the late afternoon and then have to stop and make dinner. And work, yes, earning money, but thank goodness it's irregular and some of it is at will to be taken on as I wish or not.

The late things. Ouch. Mostly to do with writing and publishing. A story due here, another there. Large numbers of books to be read and reviewed, many with deadlines. Marketing my own books, following up on reviewers, all that sort of thing. A full-to-bursting Acquisitions folder for Splashdown's author talent quest. Keeping tabs on projects in the works for upcoming release. Website tweaks. Bookkeeping.

And the Life things. Things my passion calls me to pursue. Painting. Writing. Walking on the beach. Reading - that two-foot stack of novels isn't getting any smaller. Snuggling the cat. Sleeping plenty. Yep, I need that to stay sane. Plus other random spice like playing bodhran (haven't done that in weeks) or a little exercise.

So what's my solution? Keep calm, in any case. Don't panic. Don't try and do everything at once, either. If some things end up taking longer than I thought, well, okay. So be it.

Do what must be done. Do it well. Work enough to survive, but no more.

Fight for space to let passions flow free. Without them, there is no spark.

Each of the three areas - late stuff, life, and obligations - contains about an equal amount of stuff. So I figure to try doing one, then another, and another. One by one. Don't know as I'll ever get done, but it's my aim to keep 'em more or less equal.

And the publishing? That IS a passion. Just one that requires a lot more time input than any other. Patience, I tell myself. All in good time. No need to overreact and puff up the issues till they are as big as that sack around a handful of books. Cause the books are what it's all about, really...

another song for the sea

sand, seaweed, soccer
gulls dozing on black volcanic rocks
A complete rainbow spans the sky
bright glow of seven colours
reflected in the wet beach gleam
small children in gumboots
and cosy hoodies
run circles around their parents
Sun reaches through the clouds to my page
the wind is bitter cold
but stellar radiation cheers this winter day.
Shortly I will leave this rich green of grass
this simple pine bench
this calm ocean murmur.
food to buy, business to do
money to make and spend
but before that comes this island of quiet
this orchestra of nature and humanity
The road rescue man,
come to jumpstart a stranded vehicle,
chatting about rural economics
The families dodging stray raindrops
The surfers looking in vain for a wave.
the islands are still brown from summer’s drought
but now the rains have come
and life will follow after.

Déjà Vu

It was even the same taxi driver.

Two weeks earlier, my flatmate and I were both up insanely early - she didn't need to be, but wanted to give me a send-off for my trip. I left the cat snoozing under the warm covers. Oh-dark-thirty, a glance out the kitchen window told us the taxi was early. Gulp down the tea, heave luggage out the door. She helped me with the bags and waved enthusiastically as the taxi driver attempted to reverse out of the driveway and ended up making mud off the edge of the concrete.

Then, it was a happy occasion. And it was a wonderful trip, as you'll know if you've read my recent Friday posts.

Just one day after I got back, my flatmate got news that her mother is battling cancer. Quickly, she booked a flight to leave the country and be with her. Sooner than anyone could have imagined, we were both up insanely early again, both dragging bags out to the taxi again, where the driver inquired whether I'd had a good holiday.

He mangled the grass strip again on his way out. Anyone'd think the concrete wasn't wide enough. But as I waved my friend away and turned to go inside, shut out the cold and get back in my bed where the cat still waited, I pondered how two situations that looked so much alike could be so utterly different.

I suppose my point is that no matter what you see with your eyes, the facts of the matter can vary greatly. In part, this is what we do as writers: we observe, and add a different background to the same actions we have seen from the people around us. Or we place the scenario in an invented world. What if the house were a space station and the taxi were a shuttle? Suddenly the grip of winter seems more ominous, as if it could come close to the icy vacuum of space. Perhaps it is as close as one may come in these parts.

And so the endless cycle of greetings and partings goes on, and who knows what it will bring? I've got three spare bedrooms now...

Who are you, Nouméa?

So I’m home again from my travels, with plenty to tell you about New Caledonia. It was my first time there, and as the plane neared the island, the coral reef became visible – the reef that encloses the world’s largest lagoon, so I’m told. Outside the reef, choppy winter blue seas roll up and crash onto the divider. Within, pale sand shines through to form the brightest, purest turquoise colour, dotted with giant corals.

Coming in to land, great green slopes rise up around the aircraft. You thought New Zealand was lush? Well, it is, but it’s got nothing on New Caledonia in the wet season. "Wet" being a short downpour every fourth day or so. Tall folds of mountains clothed in rich forests wrap the road to the city. Soon I am alighting at Anse Vata. But I’ve already told you about that; go look at last week’s post if you haven’t already.

At first it was hard to grasp the character of Nouméa, a place both thoroughly tropical and thoroughly European – a contradiction in terms. But the island’s natives are all citizens of France, and the bakers produce fresh bread all day long as French custom requires. Of course the brand of French spoken here has its own quirks and is a little different to standard language – much like New Zealand English differs from British or American, I imagine.

Nouméa boasts just on 100,000 inhabitants, spread out across the hills and valleys of a sizeable peninsula in the southwest of the island of New Caledonia, just 350km long in the vastness of the Pacific. Locals never lived on this promontory before the coming of the Europeans, who settled there because of the deep harbour.  Later, during World War II, many thousands of soldiers passed through since Nouméa was the U.S. Army headquarters for the Pacific.

The local currency is Pacific Francs, of which you need a couple of hundred for a loaf of bread, and a couple of thousand to dine out. The cost of living is high, but you can haggle for bargains at the waterside markets where there is a building especially for fish, one for meat, and several for fruit, vegetables, baked goods, and handcrafts.

The gentle winter sunshine makes this the perfect escape in July, although it’s mostly too cold for swimming at this time of year. Wild and refined, stylish and rough, simple yet sophisticated – a unique place indeed.

I write in church (divine inspiration)

I huddle in the crowd standing around me
forest-like, branches waving
amidst the voices I do not join
velvety melted chocolate and pure diamond clarity
that is what they sound like
I write all through the preaching
—what’s that you say? this is not what one should do
of course, but who am I to observe social strictures
I am damaged
but God is close here, the source of my words
the poetry that swirls through the room.
I am here to meet him
and that is what I do
unacceptable though it might seem to certain ones.
Thank goodness for the anonymity of pen and paper.
So while my mind whirls with superheros and cyborgs,
God looks through my eyes at these scribblings
And do you know what?
He’s smiling. Dancing.
Suggesting words. Injecting significance.
Assisting in the birth of stories,
congealing my mess of letters into something he wants in the world.
And so, as the words and music wash over me,
shake the chair,
fill the room,
I sense God’s favour in the bread and wine
and he says
everything’s all right.
I do not sing. I’m not ready for that yet.
but the chords of my heart are in motion

(For the background, please see Monday's post)